48 hours and 30 years
by adamushka
Summary: We do not give any importance to a second in our lives, but a second can mean staying alive, or die. After 30 years, now I can see from far those 48 hours of escape from certain death in Beirut.


We never know what a second in our lives may mean. We do not give it any importance , but a second can mean staying alive , or die.

I still remember the day my father came home with a super pale face , carrying documents in hand.

- It will be to Spain . We will go to Spain . - He said to my mother. Then he turned to me, my brother and my sister 7 years 8 - Did you like Ibiza last summer on vacation, right? Well, we're going to live there for a while. What do you think ?  
>The small 3 years did not understand much what was happening at home. But, as with almost 12 , I realized that at that moment , our lives were giving a 180 º. We had less than 24 hours to leave Beirut and head to our new life in Europe.<p>

No one had to realize what was going on in my house. We could only take a couple of bags , because for the other people we were going on vacation a couple of weeks to Spain . Justo was the last day of school , so , believing that we fled the country , no .

I quietly walked over to hear the instructions that my father was giving to my mother : howwe should we behave these previous hours , the different means of transport we would have to move until we take a plane in Amman , Jordan.

They were supposed to be 48 hours. 48 hours until stepping down to Spanish floor . The 48 hours that marked our lives forever.

I looked around . My house , my room , my books ... we had to leave everything as it was. But I could not protest . Knew that my father 's decision was the right one for the moment. My room shared with my 3 brothers ... A huge room decorated with great taste for my mother.

Bunks on either side , a huge sofa where I sat hours reading , littered with books desk ... My Books . If something had instilled in me my father was his passion for reading . No matter what, reading was good. "You have to read all genres to be strong " - he used to tell me . From superheroes comics to large historical novels.

Suddenly , I was frozen staring at bed .

It was barely 24 hours ago when we all, the 4 children were cornered in my bed in the bottom of the bunk. It must have been 5am . Some military ( neither remember nor care to know which side they were) were stationed at the door of the room. They were carrying kalashnekov (I think it was how they called this type of guns) . They did not let us peek into the hallway to see what happened and we could call our parents.

I had to take the place of older sister and reconcile crying of my 3 younger siblings. It seems incredible , but in the hardest moments , small children can get to behave much more calm and rational way than adults .

The 4 children we were embraced in silence , waiting for these soldiers let us pass to see our parents , or ... we shoot .  
>My eyes could not be separated from the kalashnekov triggers . For an intuitive impulse had located my brothers behind me , touching the wall. I thought , "If they shoot , they shoot me and do not give them to my brothers ."<br>I tried to hear what was happening in the halls of the house. I could not understand what they were saying . But what mattered was that I heard the voices of my parents. Still alive .

I did not understand why they were so interested in the work files from my father. What interest could have those papers? Both military deployment in an official house was not normal , right? For it is very political . I never got to understand the position he had my father in the government , basically because it was a very complicated little word to pronounce. So , when I asked at school what my father worked , I said " Something in the government."

Suddenly we saw the silhouette of my father go through our room to go to his. Little did hint of wanting to scream "Daddy ! " . But I covered their mouths . I knew we could not talk yet. I crossed eyes with my father for a second. It only took a second to know that things were not going well. That would never be the same.

My father changed his clothes and left the room. Ignoring military leaning in our room-door, he crossed the room to the bed where we were cornered. He bent down, adjusted his glasses and with his characteristic serenity he said: " Do not worry about anything. I'll be back in a few hours . Go thinking about Prom gifts that you want from Mom and Dad, okay ? " - . Then he turned to me and told me , more serious , " Rima , now you have to show your strength. give support to Mom and take care of your brother and sisters until I return . " - . Haltingly I asked, " But, you will come back , right?" . He did not answer and hugged tightly to the four .

He disappeared through the door , escorted by soldiers and men in black suits .

It was a turbulent time . Those who supported you one day, the next day you could shoot . Living in a pseudo - democracy did not give you any right to express your opinion or position yourself against the power . Well, yes, you could do it . But then you could not complain if you suddenly arrested or if you or someone in your family suffered an "accident" .

As soon went out the door, ran to see our mother . She had also done the same from the lounge. We met halfway . Young jumped into his arms as if it were some koalas . I will be curious or not , I went into the living room , pulled the blind terrace and looked into the street.  
>Holy God ! There were even military tanks! My father accompanied him into the backseat of a car with tinted windows . After all , soldiers and men in suits , boarded the corresponding car ... And , tanks, and disappeared from our streets.<p>

- " Zahra ! Zahra " ! Open the door! "

Neighbors were calling my mother. It is true that there was no written code of conduct in similar cases , but people , neighbors and family , learned to steer and not cause any altercation during the siege of the street.  
>We opened the door and a flood of people came to ask my father worried .<p>

- "You know where Mounir took " " What did " "Who should go to see to let him be ? "?  
>My mother could not say anything . Had a lot of information , but one thing was very clear . To my father still alive , she had to keep quiet .<br>- " We can only wait for them to call me . I can not move. I have to be near the phone. "

It was noon when the phone rang . The house was full of people , but suddenly fell silent , waiting for my mother answered the phone.  
>- " Yes, I am Mrs. Mounir Issa ... Agree . "<p>

He went to his bedroom and after 2 minutes came out with a box . Almost simultaneously there was a knock at the door. We looked and my mother made the gesture of going to open it . He opened the door and gave the box to 2 men in civilian clothes .  
>Years later I learned that this box contained a unique gem that my father had given my mother for her 15th wedding anniversary.<br>After an hour or two my father returned home. Just stayed to receive congratulations for their release. He said he had to go out and do some business .

That night in my house only 3 heads could sleep. My father and I were reading us all night in his room - library. My mother, sitting in a chair in the same room , knitting speeding . It was all that relaxing .

- "Come on, kids! A wake up! We go to Spain " - said my mother to wake up at 4:30 am, with a tone that , with great effort , trying to not seem worried .  
>- " We have a mission , boys " - my father , when he played with us ( the rare occasions I had time to do so) , we spoke as if our Colonel. And we were his little soldiers . - " Win one who makes less noise in the bathroom to get dressed and go down the stairs , right? The award will this new console Game &amp; Watch (I think it was the first mini-console Nintendo ) .<br>I wonder where we get that perfect synchrony and discipline. My parents had never been a authoritarian parents . By then, they were up too permissive .  
>Within 30 minutes we were ready and waiting at the door , on one side of the 2 huge suitcases that my mother had filled with clothes she could . In my gym bag Speedo let me take a couple of books and my mini electronic keyboard. I loved music and playing my keyboard relaxed me . Also a toy for each brother , because the road was going to be very long until Jordan.<br>The man trusted my father went home, accompanied by the driver who had been working faithfully for my family. They were the only two who knew of the plans of my father.

- " Sir. All set . Confirmed the route to Zahle .

Zahle , Zahle beautiful . Called " Bride of the Bekaa Valley ." Archi - known for its fresh air , delicious food and good vineyards . We used to walk the 55km separating it from Beirut only to delight in the best Safihas the world (stuffed baked pies a delicious blend of meat, spices and fresh tomato ) .

But this time it was not a tour what to expect . The tense situation, coupled with the complicated situation in my family that presaged the way to Zahle would not be as fun as it used to be .

We got the 4 kids , along with my mother in the back seat of the Mercedes 500S a few months ago that my father had bought. My father sat in the passenger seat . His chauffeur drove in silence.

In another car behind , was the confidant , who was also a friend of my father and bodyguard .

- " Zahra . take down children 's heads . " - I understood that we were going through some streets are struck snipers on rooftops. we lowered our heads . Although the 2 cars wore glasses and body bulletproof , you never knew if they had taken bulletproof glass bulletproof .

All precautions were to be few to get out of Beirut.

We were going to go for 3 controls Syrian soldiers before being out of Beirut. There used to be dangerous. A little heavy with irrelevant questions , some serious , such as " Go to this restaurant to eat ? And what do you eat there? , Invite me . And , did the threat of going into the car. And the worst was when they saw women drivers . In Lebanon , with all its pseudo - democracy and system "foreign " government , was light years ahead in terms of technological and sociological advances and many women enjoyed more freedoms in Syria. Although they , at that time , this kind of freedom gave him another name ... more derogatory.

But this is another issue and would cost rivers of ink to explain or analyze .

The first control had no problem. Syrian soldier, who was lying in his box , with the extreme delicacy that characterized education and they made us sign with his right boot to move on and not bother him .

This situation usually brings out all the indignation and anger in the Lebanese. But the usual reaction in middle age was to keep quiet so as not to cause a tragedy. There was the same in young people, protesting , are faced with the soldiers ... And ended up suffering an accident, they or someone in their environment or simply disappeared .  
>So shut up and swallow played .<p>

The silence in the car was interrupted by my sister 3 years :  
>- " How rude . That is not good ! "<p>

What a clever way to relax the atmosphere. All sketched a smile. It was not without reason.

After about 15 minutes and we played the second control , up to Chiyah . This was what we called the " American Detective Film" . 2 Soldiers formed control : one does the work of " good cop " and the other "bad cop" . The good tells you his superior ( the bad cop ) do not want to miss because apparently your name is on a list of suspects that the Syrian government is pursuing. Of course, neither will happen you could ask about the origin of that list you could not defend.  
>They made signs for the two cars to aparcáramos aside. He leaned out the " good cop " and seeing that there were children in the second car , smiled and was viewed 2 gold teeth were normally Syrian soldiers ( those who came from their rural areas , especially ) .<br>If he intended to find it friendly to smaller , of course , I was not getting. The effect was that my three brothers to mourn kicked .  
>My father and his driver out of the car , while the other car , which was parked behind our car, leaving his escort , his right hand resting on the back pocket. He knew how and when to use his weapon. I can attest to that .<p>

The last thing we needed was to waste time and not reach our flight. So I had to go to the easy solution. My father, after crossing a word with the " good cop " , handed him a ticket of 100 Lebanese pounds . By then, the change to U.S. dollars , were just over $ 50. Something like a year's salary of one of those soldiers.

Breathe a little relieved , but still we played the third control before reaching Mountain area , the area " dominated" by the Lebanese Druze .  
>In one of those towns we had vacationed whole family. The happiest summers ... All except the summer of 1982 , due to the chaos that vivó with the invasion of Israel , the Syrians withdrew and looting everything they found in their way as they went , letting Israeli soldiers Phalangists to areas occupied by Muslims , where they performed the cruelest massacres Lebanese ... And remember , that we have lived many years in the endless war .<p>

Virtually all Lebanese have witnessed bombardment by land, sea and air , have been days , weeks and months subsisting in underground shelters , and have you ever witnessed a violent death. But we do not realize what that means until you move away from the conflict zone . Until we come to a land of "Peace " , we know how precious life is.

To me it took me thirty years to face my memories. And, it's not easy.

But, let's go on...

The third Syrian control was to be the most surreal of all three. The soldier wanted to know where we were going , why, what we had and of course , wanted to see everything. But before opening the trunk , her eyes fell on one of the consoles that had my brothers.  
>- " They do not need so many , right? Children have to learn to share ... " -<p>

From there we stop and listen to their " pedagogical indications " , since all I wanted was to take a toy to a child. My father took a deep breath and asked my middle sister would mind to give to this "gentleman " his watch & game console. Obviously , she said neither speak and clutched her chest console . So did my other two siblings.

We could not open my backpack or bag to show my mom because then that man would not settle for the console only .

I happened to turn to my brothers and tell them in English. At that time we knew perfectly that rural soldiers sent us barely spoke Arabic well .  
>- " I have the new watch &amp; games in my pack . Give the old one to this man and will give you a better game . "<p>

Then , the three gave me their" old" games since they wanted a new console . Then my parents must have thought it was not so bad to have a little children as "whimsical " .

I picked one at random and gave it to the driver. This was extended to the soldier. I could not believe my eyes . The man looked like a small child who has vacated a giant toy . And, most surreal was when I looked up from the little machine and asked :  
>- " What is this machine? " " Get Light" ?<p>

This situation , however comical it look 30 years later, at the time turned out to be very unpleasant and irritating.


End file.
